Coming Home
by r4ven3
Summary: Ruth has been away from the UK for some time, having left in a huff and a hurry early in S.10. She is back in the UK for a reason. This is a one-shot which bloated into two chapters. Massively AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This story started out as a one-shot, but grew into a two-shot. I believe it still works.**_

_**Being an AU scenario, I have tweaked the time frame somewhat. In this story, at the time Ruth found out about Sasha being Harry's son, she was already working at the Home Office.**_

* * *

Ruth hadn't expected to see him in Tesco's. She was there to buy some wine, and there he was, standing alone, his lips protruding in that familiar pout, a frown furrowing his brow, as he stared at the vast display of bottled sauces, rows and rows of them in all brands, sizes and flavours, and from every conceivable corner and kitchen of the world. She wanted to call out his name, but something stopped her. It was the watcher in her – what she liked to call her Inner Spy Self - the desire to see how people behave when they're unaware they're being watched. She'd been at the end of the aisle, next to a display of chocolate biscuits, just about to turn down his aisle, but she'd stopped when she saw him.

He appeared to have changed little. She liked that he still dressed well, in chinos, a pale blue shirt, and a lightweight jacket. In his left hand dangled one of those plastic baskets which supermarkets provide for their customers who only have a few items to buy. Upon further scrutiny, Ruth could see that he was definitely a different man to the Harry she'd stormed away from, her righteous anger fuelling her escape, as she'd slammed the door behind her.

It was almost three years since she'd seen him, but at that moment – having watched him for three or four minutes – it felt like no more than a week or two. To say she'd missed him was a given. She'd thought of him every day she'd been away.

She'd rung Malcolm on her return eight days earlier. His was the only phone number she had which was current.

"You know he's retired?" Malcolm had said when she'd segued into an enquiry about Harry. Malcolm was no fool; he knew that her phone call was just a ruse to find out about their former section head.

"I hadn't known that, no. In fact, I've heard almost nothing since I left."

"He had …... a breakdown of sorts. It was around a year after you left," Malcolm had told her. "Erin Watts still thinks that he began to deteriorate once you left. I'm not so sure. I think it's just that the service was changing, and Harry no longer fitted the required template for a section head. But losing you was also a factor."

Malcolm had given her Harry's new address – a small town house in North London, close to where his daughter and her husband lived. He had not offered her Harry's phone number, and nor did she ask for it.

"And Ruth," Malcolm had said, "in case you're wondering, he hasn't anyone in his life. I think he's given up on that side of things. It's sad, really. He was such a dynamic force of nature …... back then."

Ruth had knocked on the front door, but there'd been no reply. There was also no vehicle in the driveway, so she'd walked to the nearest Tesco to buy some bottles of wine. She had little idea how Harry would feel about seeing her again, but perhaps some wine might oil the wheels of communication, making things more comfortable for them both.

He turned rather quickly so that he was looking in her direction, and he saw her before she realised it. He stood still, and watched her, just as she had watched him. She could feel her face flushing, but she was happy to see those eyes on her again, so she smiled at him as he slowly walked towards her, his almost-empty supermarket carry basket hanging from the fingers of his left hand.

"Hello, Ruth," he said quietly, once he was close to her.

"Hello, Harry. I'm wanting to buy some wine. I was about to come around and visit you at home -"

Harry lifted his eyebrows, but there was a smile on his lips.

"- if that's alright with you."

Harry nodded slightly, his eyes still holding hers. How could she have forgotten those eyes? (She hadn't.) How could she have lived elsewhere for almost three years without even a glimpse of his face, with not even a photograph to remind her? (It had been difficult, too difficult, which is why she is back.)

"If you have time," she continued, "would you like to help me choose some wine?"

"Are you really coming to visit me?"

"Of course. If that's alright with you."

"I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to see."

Suddenly, behind the sadness in his eyes, she saw what she had done. She'd left London in a hurry. She'd left her job in the Home Office, but chiefly, she'd left him …... and she'd not even attempted to contact him since.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," she said, reaching towards him, but not quite connecting her hand with his arm. "I hadn't known how …..."

"How difficult it was to be speaking to you one day, trying to tell you about …... what I told you about …... and then two days later having you leave. And …... and that was it. Ruth …..."

"Let's get the wine. We have so much to talk about."

Ruth could feel the sadness and loneliness radiating from him. She had expected him to be dismissive, or angry, or even to have rejected her outright, but she hadn't been prepared for this …... this level of melancholy, which billowed around him like an early morning fog in autumn.

Harry led her to the wine section at the back of the store. He politely suggested a merlot and a chardonnay, and Ruth chose two bottles of each. At the checkout, he insisted on paying for them, and despite feeling relieved that he seemed to bear her no malice or resentment, she thought it inappropriate that he should be paying for the wine she was taking to his house to share with him as a peace offering.

"We were both at fault, Ruth," he said, as she helped him stack the wine and groceries into the boot of his car.

Since Ruth had taken a taxi to his house, and then had walked to Tesco, she accepted his offer that they travel together to his house. While he drove, she watched him …... that is, until he glanced at her and smiled.

"I know I've aged, Ruth, but am I really that bad?"

"You haven't aged very much, Harry. You're just …... different."

"I know."

They spoke no more until they were inside his house, and he showed her around the spacious living area – a kitchen, sitting room, and dining area.

"What about your old house, Harry?"

"I sold it. It was far too big for one person, and when I retired, I just had to get out of it. It reminded me of those nights when I'd get home late from work, and curl up with Scarlet in front of the fire and …..." He'd almost said, `and think about you', but had stopped himself just in time.

Ruth looked at him, but he was occupied putting away his shopping. "Can I do something to help, Harry?"

He turned from the cupboard he was stacking with cans of soup, and looked right at her, what she'd always thought of as the Harry stare. "You can promise me that you'll never again leave without properly saying goodbye."

Ruth knew what he was saying, and she suddenly felt very guilty, very bad about her behaviour of almost three years earlier.

"Harry, I'm sorry for what I did, for the circumstances of my leaving. There's not been a day since that I haven't regretted it." Ruth spoke quietly, choosing her words carefully.

"But Malcolm told me you got married there. In San Francisco."

"Yes. It was a rebound relationship, Harry. We divorced after eight very difficult months."

The truth was that Charles Granger, expat Englishman, living in San Francisco, had been a bad idea from day one, but she had been determined to exorcise all thoughts of Harry from her life.

Harry opened a bottle of chardonnay, and he brought the bottle and two glasses to the dining table, where he indicated to Ruth that she should sit opposite him, so that she could enjoy the view over his back garden, resplendent in late-summer flowers and shrubs.

"Were you ever happy with him?"

Ruth shook her head, and against her conscious will, she felt the tears forming in her eyes. She looked down, hoping he'd not see them, but when one tear began rolling down her cheek, he stood up, walked around the table, and sat in the chair beside her.

"Was it bad?" he asked, passing her his handkerchief, clean and pressed. Trust Harry to still carry a cloth handkerchief.

"Were you expecting to come across a damsel in distress in Tesco?"

"No, but I found one anyway." He lay one hand gently on her forearm, and turned in his chair, watching her. "Tell me what's wrong, Ruth. I need to know everything. I don't sleep well these days. All I can think about is you, and those harsh words which were the last we spoke to one another."

"_Damn you, Harry. All you do is tell me things that you should have told me years ago. How many other women are there? Do each of them have a child of yours?"_

"_Of course not. None of this is relevant, Ruth. All that matters with us is you and me. Elena is no longer -"_

"_Elena is here, and so is her son. Your son. There's no room for me here, Harry. There's no room for me in your life. Your past …. your women – _she'd spat that word at him _– your women fill your life. You have such a messy history, Harry. I should have seen that years ago."_

And it had gone on and on in that vein for over half an hour, and they'd become progressively angrier with one another, each hurling words at the other that once spoken, could not be taken back. What was worse, they each seemed to derive enjoyment from hurting the other.

Harry watched as Ruth cried silently, relieved to be able to let it all out, the story of the unsuitable marriage she should never have entered into in the first place. The tears fell down her cheeks as Harry sat beside her, his hand resting on her arm.

"Where is Elena and your son now?"

"Sasha is not my son. It's a long story, but she'd duped me in an attempt to bind me to her, to get me to bring her and the boy to London. Ilya was his father, and she knew that all along. Elena is dead." Ruth's eyes widened in surprise, and Harry nodded. "Her own husband killed her. He and Sasha are now in Moscow. I don't know their fate. I've wished so often that you had stayed in London for just a few weeks longer. You would have been here when I discovered the truth about Sasha's parentage. We could have …..."

"I know. By the time I got to San Francisco, and got myself a job, I began to feel sorry for the cruel things I said. Then I met Charles, and …... well, I thought I deserved a fling with someone, and the next thing I knew, I was married. I was reacting, Harry. I was reacting to how hurt I'd felt over Elena. I can see now that I over-reacted, and that what you'd done before we met didn't matter. I'm sorry …... and I know that saying sorry doesn't change what's happened."

Nothing more was said until Ruth stopped crying, and then blew her nose on the handkerchief, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. All this time, Harry's fingers rested on her arm, a source of warmth and reassurance.

"Tell me about …." she began.

"My breakdown?"

She nodded, looking up into his eyes at last, and seeing forgiveness there, and something else – something she'd not seen since she'd left London, since before she'd angrily run from him. Was it love, or was she wanting it to be love? Harry's eyes were soft and forgiving. He sat back, so that his fingers fell away from her arm. Ruth missed the warm touch of his fingers. She took a hefty swig of her wine to compensate. She needed to feel warm. She'd been cold for far too long.

"I never recovered from your leaving. I buried myself in work, and rarely slept. It was as if I was possessed. I had no life away from the Grid. I worked, I slept. Around ten months after you left, Scarlet - my little dog – was run over and killed in front of me. She'd run after another dog, and I lost my grip on her lead. I sat down in the middle of the road next to her body, and couldn't move until a couple of sturdy chaps helped me to my feet, and took me to my house. I was a mess. I couldn't think straight, and some days I couldn't stop crying. It was Malcolm who suggested that I was grieving for more than the loss of my dog. He suggested that I'd experienced so many losses for so many years – since my mother's death when I was twenty – and I hadn't allowed myself to grieve, and then the added grief of losing you, and then Scarlet, simply tipped me over the edge. I no longer functioned normally. I took days off when I couldn't get out of bed. There was one time when I forgot to eat for a whole week, and I was surprised when my trousers almost fell off me. Malcolm told me he had your details in the US, and he offered to give them to me, but he also mentioned that you'd married, so I wasn't about to upset the new life you'd made for yourself, nor did I wish to rub salt into my own wounds. I was offered the opportunity to retire before they sacked me. That was it. A year and eight weeks after you left London, I was pensioned off …... and a year and seven months into retirement, here I am."

"Malcolm told me there's been no-one for you."

"You mean …. a woman?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"Look at me. Who would want a broken old spook like me?"

Ruth moved her mouth to say, `I would', but she stopped just before she uttered the words. It was too soon for such declarations.

"Harry, I think that you've always been so much more than your job. At your job you were amazing, phenomenal, even, but you were an even better man. You just had difficulty believing that."

"Thank you, Ruth. That's nice of you to say that."

"I said it because it's true." Ruth broke eye contact with him, feeling the tone of their meeting changing, perhaps a little too fast for her comfort. "What have you done with your time, Harry? You were always so dynamic, so busy."

"The garden you see out there? That was just a patch of long grass when I bought this place. I made it my project. I spent hours each day out there, digging, weeding, planting. I used to hate gardening, but in a way, that garden saved my life. I've had enough of death, Ruth. I had a deep need to create new life out of the death and loss I've lived through. I may have been an effective spy, but I can't do it any more."

Harry got up from the chair to open another bottle of wine – a merlot this time. He wanted to keep pouring wine until Ruth was too inebriated to go home, wherever home was. He was afraid that should he allow her to walk out his door, he'd never see her again. He couldn't lose her for a third time. He just couldn't.

"You haven't told me where you're living," he said, pouring them each a glass of wine into fresh glasses.

"I have a colleague from San Francisco who owns a one bedroom apartment in London. She won't be needing it again for at least six months, so that gives me some time for finding a job and a place of my own. It's not far from here. I could walk there quite easily."

"You'll not walk home, tonight, Ruth. It's already dark. Stay for dinner, and I'll drive you home afterwards."

Ruth was enjoying being with Harry again too much to say no to his offer. He made lasagna, and she helped him. They stood side-by-side in gentle companionship, doing something so everyday, something their previous jobs had not offered them time to explore. Ruth felt comforted by Harry's arm as it rested against her own while she handed him the next ingredient for the sauce. She could feel the movement of his muscles, and the rhythm of his breathing, just by maintaining contact with his arm. She wished they could stay that way for the rest of their lives ... standing side by side in Harry's kitchen, their arms touching, warmth against warmth.

"Was this why you were stuck in the sauce aisle today?" she asked.

He nodded, looking down at her. "Nothing was exactly what I wanted, so I'm making my own."

To Harry, as he stirred the sauce, very aware of the woman standing close to him, they felt like a couple all over again. It was as though the past thirty-three months had never happened.

Almost.

His heart was singing, but he hoped it was not breaking into song too soon.

They ate their meal at the dining table, a fresh bottle of merlot opened and waiting for Harry to pour. They'd finished the first bottle while they'd prepared their meal. There was so much they each wanted to say to the other, but instead they said very little.

Harry was almost sure she knew how he felt about her.

Ruth hoped that Harry knew how strong her feelings still were for him.

"I must go home," Ruth said, soon after ten o-clock. "You'll be wanting to go to bed."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Would he think she was dropping hints? Would he think she was offering herself to him? She breathed out slowly into the silence.

"It's alright, Ruth. I know what you mean. I know that you don't mean …... _that_."

"What if I had meant _that_?"

"I'd say that we should schedule another time, when we've both had a little less to drink."

Ruth smiled across at him, and sighed heavily. They still had terrible timing.

"I'll drive you home, Ruth."

"No, you won't. If you were breathalysed you'd be well over point-o-eight. I'll ring for a taxi."

"_I'll_ ring for a taxi."

While Harry went into the kitchen in search of his phone, Ruth gathered her things, and made sure she had her money and her keys. When the taxi arrived twenty minutes later, Harry walked her to the door, and stuffed a piece of paper into her hand.

"It's my phone number. I had to get a new one when I left MI-5." They stood just inside the closed door, a little closer than necessary, their eyes locked. "I'd like it if we kept in touch, Ruth. Ring me. Any time, for any reason. Ring me even if you have no reason." He hoped he didn't sound desperate, although he knew he did. He felt desperation flood his being, but he wasn't brave enough to ask her for her number. Perhaps that was best. Leave her with the ball, and if she wanted to bounce it back to him, then that would be wonderful. Better that than having her turn him down kindly when he rang her …... which he would first thing in the morning, were it up to him.

"I will," she said, taking the paper from him. She reached up to him, and kissed his jaw. He wondered whether she'd been aiming for his cheek, but it was a stupid thing for him to be obsessing about.

Harry stood in the doorway and watched her get into the taxi, and he watched as the taxi drove away …... leaving him alone …... again.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you to all who have read and reviewed. **_

* * *

The days passed and he heard nothing from her. He thought of ringing Malcolm, because he was sure he would have Ruth's contact details. Eight days after Ruth's visit, he rang Malcolm anyway, and arranged for them to have a drink at a pub near where he lived. Should Ruth ring, he didn't want to be far from home. Harry told Malcolm about Ruth's visit.

"Will you see her again?" Malcolm asked.

"I bloody hope so. If she doesn't get back to me, I'll lose total confidence in myself."

"No, you won't. There's more to you than that."

"She has my number, but I don't have hers."

"Why not?"

"She didn't give it to me."

"Did you ask for it?"

"No. I was waiting for her to offer it."

"Harry, for a man who at one time has slept with half the female population of London, you haven't a clue about women."

"I think your statistics are exaggerated, Malcolm."

"Of course they are, but it still doesn't explain why you can't see how much Ruth wants to make it up to you."

"She does?"

"Why do you think she went to see you in the first place?"

"Guilt?"

"You both have reasons enough for guilt – in equal measure, I'd say. No, try again."

"I've no idea."

"Love. She loves you, and she wants to start again with you."

"_What_? She didn't say that."

"Did you tell her that you still love her?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

Harry took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "I was ... afraid to."

"Because -?"

"Just in case she doesn't want the same thing I want." Harry thought for a moment, before he looked across at Malcolm in surprise. "Do you mean that Ruth fears _me_ rejecting _her_?"

"Of course she does. Why wouldn't she?" Malcolm placed his glass carefully on the table in front of him, and folded his hands before he continued, his eyes boring into Harry's. "Just think of what she did, Harry ... what she _knows_ she did. Ruth became incensed with you over the reappearance of your lover from thirty years ago. The presence of a young man whom Elena claimed was your child poured fuel on her anger ... or jealousy - probably both. She was angry with you for your actions from a time before you met her, a time when she would have been a child in primary school. She took off in a huff - not prepared to listen to your side of the story - and she left the country, Harry. She left_ you_, and then _married ..._ a man for whom she didn't care. She knows how loyal you are, and how much you value loyalty in others, and she threw that loyalty back at you, hurting you deeply in the process. I'd say she's very fearful indeed. I'd say she's pleased and surprised she even made it beyond your front door."

Harry stared down at his drink, barely comprehending what Malcolm was implying. _It couldn't be true, could it?_

"Doesn't she know I'd forgive her almost anything?" Harry said very quietly. "I forgave her long ago for ... running out on me like she did. Running is a habit Ruth has. It's just that that time she ran further, and stayed away longer."

"She's obviously unaware that you've forgiven her."

"The waiting is driving me crazy, Malcolm."

"As much as I'd love to give you her phone number, that wouldn't be wise of me. But I'll tell you something …... something I think you need to know. She has come back to London for you. That's her chief reason for her being here. She never stopped loving you, even when she was speechless with anger towards you, and even when she rather unwisely married someone else."

"So …... what should I do?"

"Something you're not terribly good at, Harry. You should simply wait, and when Ruth is ready to see you again, she'll contact you. She probably has a lot to think about. Perhaps she feels she doesn't deserve your forgiveness. Added to that, you're not the same man you were three years ago. She has to adjust to that."

Harry walked home from the pub with Malcolm's words ringing in his ears. _You're not the same man you were three years ago._ What if she doesn't want him? What if the man she loved was the booted and suited Harry, the section head of Section D? What if she doesn't want retired Harry, damaged Harry? If only he could turn the clock back three years, he'd have handled their conversation so differently. At the time, he'd been so angry with her. He'd needed her understanding, but she'd been so angry that he couldn't speak to her. He'd then met her anger with his own …... and Harry had been harboring a lot of anger, most of it harking back to Ruth having turned down the second dinner date, and then her sacrificing herself to save his career. Yes, as selfish as it sounded, he'd developed a head of anger over that. Chiefly, he'd been angry with himself. What kind of man stands by passively while the woman he loves steps on a tug boat, and chugs out of his life forever? He'd been that man, and he still felt bad about his lack of action at that time.

* * *

By the tenth day after Ruth had visited, Harry was convinced he'd never hear from her again. It had been two days since he'd shaved, and depression was again setting in. When his phone rang in mid afternoon, he almost jumped on it, but it was Catherine.

"Dad? Are you alright? I didn't hear from you last week, and I was worried about you."

"Please don't worry about me. I don't want you doing that."

"But I do …... Mark and I do."

Just then, the front doorbell rang, and Harry, hoping that it was Ruth, quickly ended his conversation with his daughter, promising to ring her back soon.

It wasn't Ruth at the door. Harry's heart dropped when he saw the young man with a laminated name tag on his chest - Corey T. Whitbread - and Harry briefly wondered what the `T' stood for. Then he noticed the strong cardboard box at Corey's feet, and that the box had holes in it, and that there was a noise – like high-pitched squeaks - coming from inside the box.

Harry wondered who hated him enough to have sent him chickens. He signed for it, and then Corey told him that there was a card inside which would explain everything.

Harry carried the box into his hallway, and he placed it on the floor – just in case. With the toe of his shoe, he opened the lid, and as he did, a small pink nose sniffed and snuffled, and its owner pushed its head until the lid slid to the floor. Crouching next to the box, Harry couldn't help smiling at the Maltese Terrier puppy which sat amid the packing. He picked it up, and held it close to his face, and was surprised at the tears which threatened to gather and fall.

"You're the cutest little thing," he said, as the puppy licked his face, the puppy's tongue rasping over the stubble on his cheeks.

Inside the box was an envelope, so, still holding the puppy under his arm, but leaving room for it to lick his hand, which it did vigorously, he opened the envelope one-handed, and pulled out a card. It was plain white, and on it was written in hand-writing he would never forget, no matter how many years they spent apart: _Another little girl for you to love. R xx_

Two kisses. Had she written one kiss, that would mean they're friends, but two kisses …... two kisses means they're so much more than friends. He turned over the card to find a mobile phone number written in Ruth's handwriting. With the puppy still under his arm, he dialled the number.

* * *

Ruth arrived less than an hour later, and she brought with her two small bowls – one for water, the other for food - a small pet bed, and some food for the puppy.

Harry was still nursing the puppy when he opened the door to her. His smile was so wide and so welcoming that she reached up to him, and kissed his stubbly cheek.

"Do you realise that you've just kissed me where this puppy licked me?"

Ruth smiled up at him, and without thinking, kissed his mouth. The kiss was too quick, too brief for Harry to have time to react to it, but he was pleased all the same. Her lips felt soft and warm against his.

"Thank you for the puppy, Ruth. You didn't have to bring all its paraphernalia. I could have bought that myself."

"I knew you would have disposed of Scarlet's things after she died, and anyway, this dog represents a new start …... for you …... and maybe, if you want it, for us as well."

Harry heard her words loud and clear, but was almost too overwhelmed by them to form a coherent reply. They had gravitated to the kitchen, off which there was a small ante room between the kitchen door and the back door into the garden. The floor in this room was tiled, so it would make a good place for the puppy to have her food and water bowls and bed.

"She's house-trained?"

"As house-trained as you are, Harry."

"Not very, then," he smiled at her, suddenly wanting desperately to kiss her. He gazed at her lips, and when he looked up, he noticed her eyes on his own mouth. Harry felt his chest fill with emotion, but it was a good emotion - not grief, not the pain of loss, but anticipation of something wonderful unfurling between the two of them.

Ruth found a hook behind the back door, where she hung the puppy's lead.

They took the puppy outside so that she could become acquainted with the garden, and to do her business. Back inside the house, after lapping noisily from the water bowl, the puppy settled happily in her basket, and Ruth and Harry walked side by side back into the kitchen. He felt her fingers grasp his, and he squeezed her fingers in his, and then let go of her hand as he moved towards the kettle, turning it on in preparation for making them tea. As soon as he turned from the tea things to look at Ruth, he knew he'd made the wrong move. She stood in the same spot she'd been standing when he'd dropped her hand, but she was wringing her hands in front of her, a look of anxiety on her face, a look which Harry knew all too well.

He was about to speak, to ask her what was wrong, but he didn't. Something _was_ wrong, and he knew what it was. He'd not trusted his instincts. He'd again allowed his head to rule – to tell him he should tread carefully, and move slowly with Ruth. His head hadn't a clue. His heart was telling him to walk to where she was – to meet her more than half way – and to touch her gently, to reassure her that he was happy to see her, and that he bore her no malice.

Harry slowly crossed the floor to stand in front of Ruth. He grasped her hands in both of his, noticing at once how cold her hands were. He brought them to his lips, and kissed each hand softly across the knuckles. One more look at her face showed him that his heart was on the right track, and that he should listen to it. He drew her hands to his waist, which ensured that she had to move closer to him. Once her hands were on his waist, he put his arms around her shoulders, drawing her against his body. She sank against him as though she'd been waiting all day for him, letting out a sigh as she pushed her face into his neck. They held on to one another, marveling at the strength of the heartbeat of the other.

"I missed you so much while you were gone," he whispered against her hair. "I learned that I need you in my life as much as I require air to breathe. Without you, I …..."

"Shh," she said, lifting her face to look at him. He noticed how large her pupils were, and how dark it was inside the house, as nighttime was fast approaching.

"I thought I'd make us some tea," he said, pulling away from her, but giving her time to adjust to him pulling away. The truth was that he was requiring time to get used to Ruth being in his house, and so clearly wanting him as much as he wanted her. "And how about some sandwiches?" he added.

In the end, he made them toasted sandwiches with egg, cheese and bacon fillings, and Ruth brewed a pot of tea. They sat close to one another at the dining table, the curtains open, so that they watched as night fell, and the darkening sky brightened with the glow from several million street lights. Sandwiches eaten, they sat over their second cup of tea, and Ruth slid closer to Harry, resting her hand on his thigh, smoothing her palm over the fabric of his trousers, her fingers occasionally sliding to his inside thigh. Harry thought it to be the singularly most erotic act he'd ever had performed on him, and women had done a lot of very interesting things to Harry in order to get his attention. He was certain that she'd hear how his breathing had deepened, and how he was suddenly a little uncomfortable just sitting next to her.

"Ruth -" he said, not sure how to say what he wanted to say.

"Do you want me to remove my hand?"

"God …... _no_. Just know that -"

"I know, Harry."

Harry sat back in his chair, no longer embarrassed by his body's clear reaction to Ruth's soothing hand. He was sure he felt Ruth's fingers touch him – just a light touch – but he may have been simply projecting on to the situation the wish that they had. He hadn't felt this good in years. He felt wanted by someone he valued deeply. He'd missed that. He needed that.

"Why did you take so long to contact me?" Harry asked after some time, turning to look at Ruth, wanting to take her playful touching further.

"I …... I had to find the right puppy for you. I couldn't get you just any dog. Besides …... I didn't want to appear too eager."

Harry leaned across and put both arms around her, holding her loosely, his mouth close to her ear.

"You were playing hard to get, Ruth?" he whispered.

"Not exactly. I didn't want to be seen to be chasing you."

Harry smiled against her ear. "I rather like it when you chase me."

"Even after …... everything?" she asked carefully.

"Yes, even then. Especially then. And," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "I'm not good at reading the signals, so I need you to be clear about what it is you want."

"I thought I was sending out rather clear signals," she said, pulling her head back so that she could look at him.

Ruth made the next move, reaching up to kiss Harry on the mouth, and he closed his eyes as they kissed, delighting in the softness of her body as she leaned against him.

"I haven't shaved in two days," he warned her, as they pulled apart to look at one another. Ruth's hand still rested on his thigh, and her fingers rested on his inner leg, so close to his erection that he thought she may as well simply grab him and be done with it.

"Why is that? Why haven't you shaved?"

"I thought I'd never see you again."

"Oh, Harry," she said, as she kissed him gently, and he responded eagerly, turning in his chair as he returned the kiss. They tasted one another, and they delved into one another's mouths, searching for that little bit more.

Harry stood up, drawing Ruth to her feet, and pushing his chair back with his foot. She slipped both her arms around his waist, and he noticed how warm her hands now were. He gently pushed her against the edge of the table, where he pressed himself against her, and he heard her gasp into his mouth, and then her hands grasped his buttocks. _This has been a long time coming_, Harry thought. There had been times – nine years earlier – when he'd watched her across the Grid, imagining something like what they were now doing. It felt so good. _She_ felt so good.

They kissed some more, and then Harry turned to taste the skin of her neck, kissing her all the way down to the collar of her blouse. As he sucked gently on her neck, he pushed himself against her, just in case she was not yet sure what he had in mind. He felt Ruth's mouth on his earlobe, licking and biting. The heat from her breath was arousing and thrilling. He lifted the fingers of one hand to her blouse, and began opening the buttons at the same time as Ruth's hand snaked down the front of his trousers and cupped him gently. They both sighed as a little of the tension left them. They each wanted the same thing.

It was seven and a half years since he and Ruth had been this close to one another, and then they had not been preparing to make love ….. they'd been preparing to part from one another forever. But it hadn't been forever, although it had felt like it at the time. She had come home again, but they had never quite managed to cross the great chasm which had opened up between them when George had died. And then, just as they were growing closer, and they each believed that something might happen for them, that their time had at last arrived, the Russians had come to town, and nothing in their lives was ever the same again.

Ruth pulled away from the kiss, and grasped Harry's hand, the one which had just opened the last of the buttons on her blouse. She noticed him staring hungrily at her purple bra. Holding his hand, she led him to the stairs.

"You'd better tell me which is the door to your bedroom," she said, and he did.

They knelt on the bed, facing one another, while they undressed each other. Seeing one another naked for the first time was overwhelming, and so Harry lifted the duvet, and they snuggled underneath, lying close together, their hands exploring the skin of the other. They allowed themselves a long time in which to familiarise themselves with the body of the other, but it was when their bodies joined in the act of love that they knew they had each come home that day.

"Can you ever forgive me, Harry?" Ruth asked, when they were lying close together afterwards, their breathing slowing, their skin was still hot and moist from their exertions.

"For what?"

"For leaving the country without even saying goodbye."

"I forgave you that a long time ago. It's taken me longer to forgive myself."

"Whatever for?"

"For losing my temper. For doing nothing while you stormed out. I sat there thinking that you'd deserved my anger. I can't forgive myself for that."

"But you must, Harry. Do you know how much I love you? More importantly, do you know how deeply I regret my actions three years ago? I just want to make up to you some of what we've lost."

"I'm beginning to understand."

Harry leaned across, about to kiss her, when they heard the click of claws on the wooden floorboards, and a tiny yipping from beyond the end of the bed. He kissed her quickly, and then got out of bed to lift the puppy on to the end of the bed. Ruth considered for a moment how a naked Harry holding the small puppy against his chest would make a wonderful pinup for a calendar. She watched him as he took his bathrobe from the back of the door, and arranged it as a temporary bed, and then settled the puppy into the middle of the bathrobe. "There you are, puppy," he said, and Ruth smiled at his gentleness.

They had settled back under the covers, both drowsy with after-loving when Ruth spoke again.

"What will you call her, Harry? You can't keep calling her `puppy'."

"Mmm," he said, his voice lazy with contentment. "Let me think about it."

Ruth waited, but he said nothing more. It was almost fifteen minutes later that she felt him take a breath, and utter the one word. `Millie'.

"What?" she said groggily.

"Millie. The dog. Her name. Do you like it?"

For her answer, Ruth turned her head towards him and kissed his bare chest, directly over his beating heart. He was so lovely, her man.

_Fin_


End file.
